I poured through my photos yesterday (Thursday) in an attempt to come up with the perfect TBT photo. Dad, since I know you’ll ask, TBT (Throwback Thursday) is when people post old photos of themselves on social media or blogs. Not old as in, “Check out my crow’s feet in this photo,” but old like, “Hey, check out my ALF t-shirt.”
I have plenty of pictures of both, by the way.
The McRib sandwich at McDonald’s!
I’m just kidding. I’ve never eaten a McRib in my life. But if you’re a fan, I did find this handy dandy website that records McRib “sightings” all across our great nation.
You can thank me in 15 years when all 70 McRib ingredients have processed out of your colon.
This weekend we hosted another round of family here at the Morgan Hostel. I downgraded us from a hotel or motel to a hostel since our visitors have to share a bathroom with two toddlers. And one of them (WHO IS FINALLY POTTY TRAINED, PRAISE THE LORD) doesn’t have very good aim. Also, our guests are forced to eat my questionable cooking . . . which just adds to whole “I may die if I stay here much longer” feeling.
[I think she says stuff like this to frighten away future visitors.]
In an effort to evade the freezing rain in Atlanta, my parents came to town on Monday evening—two days before the day we all planned for them to arrive. Two days before the day the house would have been clean. Two days before the day the furniture would have been dusted. Two days before the day I would have had meals planned, prepared and frozen.
I know. Even I didn’t believe that last one.
I hopped in the car with the kids on Monday for a week-long trip to the booming metropolis of Knob Noster, Missouri. Yes, since you asked, we do lead glamorous lives.
Brian is working in Knob Noster all week, and I thought it would be a sanctifying experience if the kids and I joined him there for five days in a military hotel. I woke up with no alarm at 6:30 a.m. on Monday (seriously, that’s a miracle in and of itself) with a list of things I needed to accomplish before our 4:00 p.m. estimated departure. I wanted to wait until after Averi’s nap to hit the road, and I knew I would need every bit of the morning and afternoon to pack for a week in a hotel with two toddlers.
Did I mention it is a one bedroom hotel?
I was shooting for super-sancitifed.
I really would love to be one of those people who comes home from a trip, unpacks my suitcase(s) the moment I step foot in the door, throws a load of laundry in the washer before I’ve even taken off my shoes, and then creates a scrapbook or photo album entitled “Summer Family Photo Album” before the memories have faded.
If you know me or have read this blog for more than a week, you know good and well that just isn’t me.
Not even close.
But this past summer was one of the best summers of my life. Maybe the best. Despite the screaming and tantrums, the sleepless nights, the potty training failures, and my miserable attempts at motherhood, I can look back through my thousands of photos from our summer and know that I am blessed far beyond what I expected. And certainly beyond what I have earned. This has been a summer full of grace…in so many ways.
Let’s start here:
Remember my Labor Day post about how Brian got pulled over in a speed trap for the billionth time this year? And remember how I said I would reenact that in a one-woman show about it? And remember how I vowed to never travel in the car with any of them again until one of them learns to stop speeding and two of them learn to defecate in a toilet and to quit whining nonstop?
Feast your eyes, my friends.
We have a winner and a consensus:
Sarah: “Definitely Dangly. Gangly is when your arms and legs are long and awkward – to me anyway…” Shoot me an email at firstname.lastname@example.org to redeem your earrings!
And the consensus is that “gangly earrings” is not a thing. They’re dangly. Google is wrong.
Alrighty, it’s giveaway time. And confession time. Don’t worry dad. It’s just a goofy confession about my changing body that not even my closest friends know about me.
Aaaaaaaaaaand we just lost my dad.
[Please tell me she's not about to talk about women's troubles.]
Don’t worry, I’m not talking about women’s troubles. I’m talking about my ears.
[I guess it depends on the woman as to whether or not there's trouble in that department.]
Oh SNAP! But, seriously, cut it out. This is a friendly place.
[Who is Katy always talking to in the brackets? I'm so confused by this blog sometimes.]
So, my ears. They’re just…different. For one, they just don’t work as well as they used to, according to my husband. Whether or not that is a “selective” phenomenon is still up for debate.
Remember a few weeks ago when I said I would never again take a road trip while our kids are toddlers? Remember that? Remember how I said I’d rather rip off my toenails with a crowbar?
Yeah. I lied.
Actually, I didn’t lie. I just forgot that we planned this Labor Day weekend trip to my in-laws’ farm house in Indiana. So, last Thursday morning—around (ahem) noon—we piled in the car, set Blues Clues on constant loop, and made the 10-hour trek to the Hoosier State.